Vocabulary of Comfort

My friend is breaking down in tears. She stands in an inappropriate doorway, the Save-
A-Lot, where grapes are on sale, 79 cents. And somehow I think the most appropriate

response is to kiss her, to careen the mileage of my breasts against hers, slip the muscle
of my silent tongue between those wobbly lips, touch her teeth. She is not

my lover. Her mascara leaks down the hump of her cheeks. Her chin,
which I've always thought of as strong, wants to shake off her face,

start a practical life as a chemist. I put my hands, my short inappropriate
hands, on her shoulders, send the inadequacy of my face towards hers.

My small vocabulary of comfort convinces me nothing else will work.
Pamela with her tears and me with my hands, this blind tongue, stand, feet

shuffling around the secret device that tips off the store's automatic doors.
Which blinked and twitched. Which opened and closed. Which started and stopped.